


Undone

by XYDamianKane



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU, Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Face-Fucking, Facials, Fashion & Couture, Forced Feminization, Forced Marriage, Light Sadism, M/M, No Dialogue, Purple Prose, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-18 21:41:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22600276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XYDamianKane/pseuds/XYDamianKane
Summary: Tim knows Ra’s knows how to be patient. This isn't impatience--it's about the sadistic pleasure of knocking over someone else’s house of cards.So to speak.
Relationships: Tim Drake/Ra's al Ghul
Comments: 6
Kudos: 110





	Undone

**Author's Note:**

> Mind the tags, for real.

_Luxury may be defined not only as pleasure, or as the consumption of the scarce, but as the “unfurling” of others’ hard work. What could be more luxurious than the casual-and-fleeting enjoyment of the hard-and-long labor of others?_

_\--Lisa Wade, Luxury and the Consumption of Labor_

* * *

The first dress is Western. It is the fine bone-white of magazine covers.

It’s not what Tim expected.

There are touches of the League’s aesthetics--the all-over lace is spun on on a complex, angular geometry that make him think of the Moorish architecture Ra’s is so fond of. There are no zippers or metal fasteners, only light cord lacing up the back in a complex pattern he can’t do up--or undo--alone.

The servants lace him into it. There are no sleeves, it rises to his throat. The train is long enough to hobble his stride, as if the white satin heels and delicate silver leg irons didn’t do enough. They rouge his face, a little on his cheeks and enough to redden his mouth. They put white flowers in his hair.

(He shouldn’t feel self-conscious about how jarringly big and scarred his bare arms look, he should be using them to knock the servants out so he can run.)

The civil ceremony is short. The religious advisor to a local war lord that owes Ra’s a favor officiates.

The banquet passes in a blur.

Tim asks for nothing but wine and is denied.

The night is unbearably long.

Ra’s takes him to bed, and the lace makes a terrible noise when Ra’s tears it in one movement from high collar to hem. He seems to relish it--Tim knows Ra’s knows how to be patient. It’s the fiendish pleasure of knocking over someone else’s house of cards.

So to speak.

It’s open--Tim is open--even with the dress still looped around his upper arms. The perfumed oil Ra’s prepares him with drips onto the raw silk lining and Tim knows it will never come out.

There’s a huge gold-framed mirror in Ra’s’ chambers, to the left of the bed. Tim focuses on the ragged, unraveling edges of the torn lace in the reflection. He stares at the white flowers that fell out of his hair, crushed under his back over and over as Ra’s takes him apart.

* * *

The second dress is...more in line with what he expected.

Despite it all, he does feel bad for making assumptions.

It is green and gold, and comes in three pieces. A close fitting top in saffron fabric shot through with gold. It has cap sleeves, at least, but leaves his stomach exposed. Living here has softened his waist--he is not permitted the exercise he was used to, and Ra’s makes him eat with impressive regularity.

It does look aesthetically better, he has to admit.

There’s a translucent green-net length of fabric, with intricate little embroidered geometric rosettes. Tim’s seen some of the harem girls wear less ornate ones over the shoulder. Perhaps Ra’s intends it as a veil, to this particular end.

The star is the skirt--the servants tell him it’s a _lehanga_ \--it’s yards and yards of heavy green silk, embroidered richly with what must be thousands of fine gold-glass beads.

He is not given shoes.

It’s heavy to wear, like armor weighted all wrong. He feels unbalanced, clumsy, in a way he rarely feels anymore.

They paint his eyes with kohl, this time, darken his lashes wish ashes. His lips are redder. He’s sure he looks as pale as a corpse.

They plait his hair and twist it in on itself at the nape of his neck, so tightly and precisely that a dull headache springs up in his scalp and doesn’t relent for the rest of the night.

The final touch is to bind his hands together with stitched panels of the same green silk and hook a smoking gold censer there.

The smell of incense always made him dizzy. The censer swings dangerously near the skirt whenever he walks--he is afraid it will catch fire, so he holds his arms as far from his body as his range of motion allows.

This ceremony is not for Tim--which means he really doesn’t have to move. He’s hidden away in the greenish dark of the underworld by masked men, and Ra’s hunts for him with no torch. Tim can only hear the presence of the others. His eyes betray him and refuse to adjust. He is caught again, and Ra’s’ eyes reflect green light that is not there.

Ra’s ruins his face first this time. He lays Tim down, head dropped off the side of the bed, pins his bound hands, and fucks straight into his throat. Tim closes his eyes. He gags and gags and feels the drool run down his face. He thinks to breathe for his nose when it’s not blocked by Ra’s’ balls, but it doesn’t go anywhere with Ra’s’ cock stuffed in his throat, only pushing deeper, allowing no relief.

So he relaxes his jaw as best he can and lets the soft fuzziness of asphyxiation fill his body. He’s hot and cold and can’t breathe and the skirt is so heavy around his legs. Tears squeeze out of his eyes and run freely up into his hair. He kicks out a little on reflex, his hips twisting as his body struggles instinctively, weakly to get away. His legs only tangle themselves more. He pushes out the last stale air in his lungs screaming around Ra’s’ cock before he must black out.

The rush of air is like being slapped, and so is the splatter of Ra’s cumming on his face, into his open mouth. His gasp for air means he inhales some of it, and his coughs are sickening. His face is so wet, and he props himself up. The blood rushes back out of his head.

He’s still crying.

Ra’s moves him back into the pillows at the headboard.

He rips open Tim’s skirt with his own perverse kind of glee.

There’s the sound of a thousand loosed beads scattering on the stone, ringing almost as loud as Tim’s hiccuping sobs.

He forces Tim’s legs apart, and there is no scented oil, no preparation this time. Tim is blinded by pain and the pressure of Ra’s’ full weight on his body. Ra’s has his hands tangled in Tim’s hair, holding Tim’s face flush to his chest, and pulls it to leverage himself. Tim is suffocating again. He’s sure he is bleeding. He cries harder for the pain and for the ugliness red-brown stains will make on green silk. The stiff material and the metal thread in the bodice chafes his chest as Ra’s pushes it back and forth with each overwhelming thrust.

Ra’s repositions him, bends him in half, pushing his knees to his shoulders, and the unnatural arch of his body lets Ra’s slide his cock deeper inside him. It hurts, but it lets him breathe, too. His eyes flick over to the mirror. He can’t stop himself.

The black around his eyes is long since smeared with tears and cum, like uneven twin bruises. He expected his lipstick to be ruined, but seeing it smeared like this is still unsettling. It's the blue-brown-red of blood, like he's been in a fight. 

Ra’s catches him looking, and takes a hand off the back of Tim’s knee. He raises it to Tim’s face and smudges the lipstick further down Tim’s chin with his thumb. He isn’t slowing down, though it makes the angle slightly worse, just painful enough to matter.

And that is what Tim remembers.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know, but I had fun. I think I looked at the title of People Ruin Beautiful Things (probably my favorite Ra'sTim fic) and was like...fuck, they sure do.


End file.
